


technical difficulties

by swaeger (machogwapito)



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, ooc probably lmao i didn't know how to write this one at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machogwapito/pseuds/swaeger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Traeger is a microchip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	technical difficulties

**Author's Note:**

> written for a [prompt](http://treemurderer.tumblr.com/post/104086654043/i-wanna-do-some-drabbles-break-me-goodbye-an) on tumblr, again. "my character's reaction to your character's death", in which my character's ron and my friend is chris and yadda yadda.

_It was bound to happen eventually_ , is what Chris told him when he could still speak. _A microchip can only last so long._

Ron just hadn’t quite equated ‘eventually’ to be so soon.

The calming green colour of Chris’ hospital room used to make Ron feel nauseous, but these days he’s used to it. He no longer feels strange when he sees the IV drip in the man’s arm, or when he notes the sanitary bedsheets that used to make Chris look so disabled and so little. When he sits by the man’s side and he sees the circles under his eyes or the way his cheeks have hollowed out, he doesn’t associate it with foreign territory any more, either.

Chris stopped being able to swallow solid food a long time ago, but somehow habit always has Ron bringing some wrapped lettuce for him. Today is no exception, and he puts it by Chris’ bedsheets for him like people would put down bouquets. Ron knows that the days and nights and weeks and months have all melded together by now, and that the only thing that separates them are the visits he pays Chris on a religiously daily basis. Hours, however, are harder to tell apart, because he spends so many of them in silence by Chris’ side—a little more stoic, a little more pale, but so much more alive than Chris is now.

It started out as bi-weekly visits. Then weekly. Then once every three days. Then everyday. Honestly, Ron only started coming daily when Leslie, Ben, and Ann stopped doing it in their attempts to raise their children. Chris just wasn’t ever the sort of person who deserved to be alone at any time, and even in his pretend apathy Ron could understand that.

Ron is a smart man. He knows that Chris wants to tell him to scram, to go outside and breathe fresh air and shout at the blue sky even though Ron’s never been the type. He knows that Chris wants him to move on from this and for him to live. He also knows, however, that Chris has always been equivalent to sunlight—and sunlight is nothing if it has nothing to shine on. Ron knows without a doubt that Chris is happy he’s here. He knows that in Chris’ eyes, no vase of flowers would look as out of place while brightening up the room like Ron does. He hates Chris for it, a little bit. But today he knows he can’t hate him at all.

Ron speaks first, because the doctors said Chris is at a point where opening his eyes makes his head swim. What he says is, “Do you need water or medicine.”

And Chris shakes his head.

Even something like that looks pathetic on him, and it takes an effort for Ron to remember what Chris used to be—days of running and lifting and push-ups for hours and hours all distant like a fairytale. Nothing seems as real as this room, the still air, and the towers of hi-tech medical equipment next to his ex-boss’ hospital bed.

So Ron takes Chris’ hand in his and squeezes it to give him something else to hold onto.

"I talked with one of the nurses today," Ron says quietly. "Or rather, they talked to me first. They told me that I should stay the night because tonight might be the last."

Chris doesn’t respond. Ron hears the steady beep of the heart monitor, and he wonders what it must be like. He wonders if the darkness that lingers right outside Chris’ world is calming or frightening.

He’s never missed hearing his full name in Chris’ voice more.

"So I’ll be—" Ron stops when he hears his voice crack, then continues like a man. "—here."

There are only two times when crying is acceptable in Swanson Code: when one is at the Grand Canyon, and when one is at a funeral. Ron hasn’t cried over Chris before, not even after hearing the final prognosis foretelling Chris’ eventual passing, but now Ron finds that he does. He keeps squeezing Chris’ hand and starts to cry in silence with tears streaming down his cheeks, and only when he feels Chris’ fingers twitch in his hold does Ron finally make the extra mile and bend to hold the man in his arms.

How long has it been since Chris has been held by someone without instigating the hug? Surely not any time soon. Ron knows for a fact that he’s never hugged Chris first.

But right now he holds onto him and sobs quietly into his shoulder like a child. Right now Ron soaks Chris’ hospital gown with tears. Right now he threads his fingers through Chris’ stiff hair and presses his moustache to the man’s shoulder, and he knows that if Chris could return the gesture the other man would be smiling and hugging back with just as much gusto, if not so much _more_.

The thing is, Chris’ arms are too heavy now, and the smallest squeeze of Ron’s hold must no doubt be too much at this point.

Ron _knows_ —has _always_ known Chris like the back of his hand, has _always_ understood the man from afar like he’s understood everyone who’s walked into his life and left a mark—and he _understands_. And he remains strong even through the tears that leave him and he swears he’s never felt more proud of Chris Traeger than in this moment, most especially when he feels Chris’ own face turn towards the curve of his neck like his final action as the six million dollar man.

Ron breaks Swanson Code in Chris’ room that night time and time again, and when morning comes, he’s the only one left in it breathing.


End file.
